When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys 2)

We came to the hallway where we had to part ways for our different classes. He took a step closer, looming over me—the man was a beast.

“All this?” He spun a finger in the air to indicate the school. “It’s just fucking noise. Bullshit. You want something, you fight for it.”

“Unfortunately, that would be a battle waged on two fronts. For him”—I tapped a finger to my temple—“and for me.”

“Mr. Wentz.” Vice Principal Chouder’s voice cut through the morning air. “My office. Now.”

I cocked my head at Ronan. “Again? Do you pay rent there?”

He shrugged. “Like I said. Bullshit.”

Chouder cleared his throat. “Wentz.”

I saluted Ronan and hummed “Taps” as he followed Chouder to the admin building to meet his fate—and likely another suspension—while I headed to AP English.

In class, Ms. Watkins strolled between the aisles, handing back our Personal Essays. We’d been assigned to write a first-person narrative about a time in our lives where we found ourselves at a low point. I’d considered hauling in my trunk of journals and dumping them on Ms. Watkins’ desk, but I wasn’t a showoff.

I’d written about Christmas Day and my trek to the Shack but in abstract terms. I fractured myself into two characters: one who was real and the other who existed as a figment of the other’s imagination. Two figures, one trudging through snow toward a lake, one through rain along a beach. One battled through the physical sickness of PTSD. The other drank himself into a stupor. It ended with both characters finally seeing each other for the first time in the reflection of a bathroom mirror.

Not quite “The Day My Hamster Died” but that’s how I roll.

“In general, I was very pleased with your work,” Ms. Watkins told the class. “All of you proved the notion that there is no such thing as an ordinary life.” She stopped in front of me where I slouched in the last row, corner seat. “I commend your honesty. I’m humbled by it, actually.”

Her gaze met mine softly, her expression unreadable as she dropped my essay on my desk and retreated back up the aisle. I flipped it over. Instead of a letter grade, there was Ms. Watkins’s neat penmanship across the top.

See me after class.

I muttered a curse on principal, but in truth, seeing those words was sort of like opening the door to my guesthouse on Christmas Day and finding Beatriz there. Maybe something good would happen if I let it in.

“Thank you for staying,” Ms. Watkins told me when class ended. She perched on the top of the desk in front of me. “I’d like to talk to you about your essay.”

“You didn’t give me a grade. Did I leave a participle dangling?”

“Not quite.” She picked up the essay to flip through it at random. “His eyes are an alcoholic’s memoir without the wisdom of having hit rock bottom. He’s still falling.” She let the pages rest in her lap. “This is a third person narrative, but it’s still you. Isn’t it?”

“Some names and places have been changed to protect the guilty.”

She smiled gently. “Perhaps you’re assigning the pain to these characters instead of taking it on yourself?”

I shifted in my seat. “Perhaps.”

Ms. Watkins folded her hands in her lap. “Holden, this story is beautiful, sad, and frankly, a little concerning. I need to ask…where are your parents?”

“Seattle. I live with my aunt and uncle. They’re nice. Boring and gullible, but nice.”

“Do you have a counselor? A therapist?”

I rolled my eyes and began gathering my things—mentally shutting the door in her face. Watkins was smart and kind but, in the end, just another adult shuffling me to someone else to deal with.

Like dear old Mom and Dad.

“I have therapy. You’re holding it in your hands.” I held my hand out. “Do I get a grade or not?”

Ms. Watkins sighed and gave the paper back to me. “You’re lightyears above this class, Holden, and probably every other class at this school. But I’m concerned about you. It’s obvious you’ve suffered something extremely traumatic.”

“Gee, whatever gave you that idea?” I muttered, stuffing the paper in my bag. Guilt washed over me at her pained expression. “You don’t have to worry about me, Ms. Watkins. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

“Does concern for your well-being make you uncomfortable?”